


Nevermore

by lifeiszesty



Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 08:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeiszesty/pseuds/lifeiszesty
Summary: Raven contemplates his life.  Rewrite of an old fic from 2008.





	Nevermore

“Some waste their lives while they're alive, others waste their lives by dying too soon.”  
\- Raven, Tales of Vesperia

The old man can't fall asleep. If he closes his eyes, it's dark, and if he opens them, it's still dark, and darkness alone can't cure insomnia.

“Damn,” he mutters to himself. He turns his head to catch a glimpse of the other occupants of the room. Seeing that they were asleep, he moves a hand cautiously over his chest to his heart. …Where his heart should be. Instead of flesh and the constant rise and fall of a pumping muscle, his hand instead is greeted by the cold steel machine of a Blastia, the only thing keeping him from descending to a hell where he probably belongs. He moves his weather worn fingers over the dome-like structure, feels the crest that it's mounted on and where it grips into his skin keeping the damn thing in place.

Thoughts like these only serve to depress him, and he knows it. The old man gets up from his bed and makes his way towards the exit, passing another bed in the room where Karol lays sprawled out in a deep sleep. He takes note of the figure on the floor propped up against the wall, head down, eyes closed. He hates how Yuri sleeps by the door like some kind of watchdog ready to leap out at potential intruders, but the old bird has a way of sneaking around without making a sound. Ravens work best in the shadows where they blend in with their surroundings. Pleased with his small victory, he sneaks out of the inn and into the night.

Nighttime in Dahngrest always has an eerie feel to it. The pale light from the barrier plays off the stone buildings, casting dark shadows within the multitude of narrow alleyways that give the city its infamous reputation. He always fancied he might get jumped one day if he ever entered one unprepared, maybe even get murdered quickly and silently by some rogue assassin that disliked him for whatever reason. He sometimes wondered what a death like that might feel like or if anyone would question where he was as he lay on the cold cobblestone streets staining the ground red as he gave out his last breath.

Back then, on those lonely nights when he had first entered Dahngrest, he wouldn't have minded such a thing.  
He finds himself walking across the bridge at the city's main entrance and leans over the edge watching the fast currents of the river some forty feet below.

Tomorrow, they leave for the one place he wants to avoid the most. Just thinking about the now obliterated mountain brings back images, images of the blood-stained rocks and the piles of broken, mutilated bodies as far as the eye could see. Corpses of monsters, corpses of his fellow soldiers, and her.

He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the water below that breaks the silence, feeling the cool crisp breeze against his face. He remembers the young, lazy soldier, the son of a proud noble family from the city of Farihyde, forced into the army by a father afraid his son would bring shame to the family name. With a tanned rugged face and bright green eyes, the unruly boy known as Damuron Atomais toiled away, yearning for the careless lifestyle he once lived, wishing he could go to the parties his friends were sure to be having. He found the life of a lowly soldier absolutely humiliating and did all he could to be sent back home.

One day on patrol, he decided to approach a cute girl passing by to break up the boredom of military life. He talked to her and asked her questions, laughing, enjoying himself as she tried to politely leave. Then, suddenly, multiple arrows shot out, pinning him to a nearby wall. Still in shock, he came face to face with a girl no older than him in a soldier’s uniform pointing an arrow straight at his head. She cut him off as he tried to plead his case and scolded him with harsh words.

He listened half-heartedly, his face burning at the lecture. She frowned and looked at him with an expression he couldn’t figure out. It wasn’t pity and it wasn’t disappointment. And despite her small stature, her large eyes, and round face, he couldn’t bring himself to talk back to her. When she turned and left, he remembers her straightened back, her head held high, and the long hair that whipped around behind her. The boy decided to stick around the military just a bit longer.

Not long after, the boy wandered too far at night outside the safety of the brigade's tent. He felt inadequate as she came to his rescue, warding off the swarm of monsters while he kneeled on the ground bleeding. He felt inferior to have such a tiny girl come to his aid. He felt shame as he saw her face fall when he yelled these frustrations at her, and he felt guilt when he saw genuine worry etched in her face. “What matters most,” she said in that moment, “is that you’re alive.” As she healed his wounds, she said, “You may not believe me, but your life is important. Not because you’re a soldier, not because you’re a noble, but because you are here, right now, in this world. And you have a duty to take care of yourself.” She looked into Damuron’s eyes and said, “I won’t always be here to protect you.”

He remembers how she patiently taught him to become a better soldier. He remembers the joy they shared as their superiors began to take special interest in the once delinquent cadet. He remembers how he began to admire Commandant Alexei, and how much the commandant cared about the people. Alexei cared about all of the citizens of the Empire and strove to make the Empire a better and safer place for everyone. Little by little, Alexei's ideals became Damuron's ideals, and the commandant became the role model the young man never had.

He remembers how proud he was when Alexei had made that small but strong-willed girl a captain. The brigade members were both of noble and common blood as the commandant wanted to prove that those born from different walks of life could work together. That girl was the perfect leader, focused and firm yet gentle and understanding. She made sure to listen to criticism with her head held high, and she led her troops with pride. He watched her every move and did his best to support her through good times and hard times. And even though she had a whole brigade under her command, she always made sure to encourage Damuron to keep up the good work and to sass him back when he sassed her.

He remembers the smell of the bouquets of fire lilies his captain kept in her room, how graceful she fought despite the clunkiness of a soldier's armor, how much pride she had in the archer's bow that was her family's heirloom. He remembers how he felt when he saw her eyes look lovingly into the eyes of another man, a soldier he didn’t know well. He remembers throwing himself into his work for months hoping it was just a fling. He remembers shadowing the alleys of the market place to see this other man get down on his knee and pull out a ring. His captain gave out a cry of shock and soon the two were laughing as the sounds of clapping and congratulations filled the market place.

He remembers hearing the news. The destruction of Farihyde. His home, an entire city, gone. His wealthy friends in their fancy suits and jeweled rings laughing with wealthy girls in fancy dresses at extravagant parties without a care in the world. Gone. His father with his deep-set frown sick in bed unable to walk, his mother’s disappointing eyes as she sat by her husband’s bedside, his older brother hunched over a desk writing paperwork and trying to prove himself, his younger brother huddled in the corner of a library with his nose in a book, all dead. All gone.

He remembers how much he pleaded with his captain not to get caught up in the war and how much she argued against him, proclaiming that she was as much a soldier as any other man or woman who marched to Mt. Temza wearing a knight's suit of armor, carrying the empire's flag. She’s done enough for the Empire. She could retire and start a family away from the devastation. Why was she willing to risk the wonderful future ahead of her?

“I’m counting on you to watch my back just as I’ll watch yours.” He remembers how his hands shook as he followed behind her straightened back, head held high into the midst of war.

He remembers how she healed him when everyone abandoned him. He remembers the white light and the explosion, his body flying through the air. And the pain. A jagged, sharp rock protruded through his chest, keeping his body from bleeding out. And pierced through the rock on top of him was his captain, her eyes open and unblinking and her body covered in blood, unmoving. He struggled to move, to scream her name through the blood in his mouth, but his body weakened, and his eyesight eventually faded to black.

Damuron Atomais died that day and in his place stands a lifeless puppet, a false hero trapped in a current he's too weak to swim against, his strings pulled by a twisted, fallen idol. The only thing keeping him alive is a machine pumping blood into his body controlled by a madman who can switch it off at any time.

Raven puts a hand on his face and feels the wrinkles under his eyes and the scruff on his chin.

Who is he? Is he just silly old Raven with a crooked smile, high ranking guild member of Altosk? Is he the stoic and serious Captain Schwann Oltorain, dog of Commandant Alexei? Or is he still Damuron Atomis, the spoiled rich kid who became one of thousands of victims of the Great War? He doesn't know.

He smiles, knowing his companions would slap him for having dark thoughts. But they don't know his hardships. How can they? They're too young and too hopeful. He can’t keep his thoughts from wandering. He can barely tell up from down and right from wrong.

“Casey,” he murmurs under his breath, watching the faint reflection of the moon on the river. “I'm sorry you have to see how pathetic I've become. I know it's unfair of me to ask this of you, but please. Give me a sign. I can't waver and fight anymore.”

A sharp pain racks his body and he kneels down, holding one hand on the bridge for support. “Dammit.” He clutches his machine of a heart and slowly gets up. He looks up one last time towards the sky as inklings of red and purple form on the horizon, and he makes his trek back to the inn hoping that no one has noticed his absence.


End file.
